


Dallas Guns

by Nadler



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Drabble Collection, Drabble Sequence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadler/pseuds/Nadler
Summary: There are still gunslingers in Dallas. Not all of them wear spurs.[A drabble collection]





	1. The Rental

**Author's Note:**

> I always said I would do some Stars mob au, and here we are. With drabbles. Each chapter is linked drabbles. Not really sorry.

Mats Zuccarello was a specialist. He was good with his hands, and he had smarts to back him up. He wasn't the biggest guy out there, but he didn't have to be. He wasn't the muscle to intimidate anyone, just someone who got things done. 

He went down to Dallas because he was told to, and while he'd never ask Hank what the price was, Mats sure hoped it was worth it. 

"Come back in one piece," Hank told him, and if Mats didn't know any better, he'd accuse him of crying. 

Mats couldn't tell him that maybe he wouldn't. 

 

\---

 

They wanted him to do what he did in New York, which Mats expected. 

He didn't expect to slot in as well as he did. He didn't know what kind of operation Benn and Seguin ran, but it was a scrappy one, and they didn't waste any more time on introductions than necessary. He expected cowboys, somehow, but their guns were as sleek as any, and their crew was full of Russians and Finns, of all things. 

The bullet grazed his arm, but he got it done. 

It was only the first day, and he already had new scars. 

 

\---

 

It would never be New York, but sometimes, Roope asked him for a trick, and Mats wondered if that was what he needed, someone to take under his wing. He was on thin ice, back there, and even Hank couldn't shield him from it. 

Mats's arm healed. They put him back in the field the next chance they got. They're desperate in Dallas, and Mats didn't ask why or what they were afraid of. That was over his head and paygrade. The work was almost the same. 

On his other burner phone, Mika called. Mats always answered. 

He wore green, now.


	2. The Young Guns

"You ever use your bare hands?" Seguin asked, as Miro was looking at the spread of weapons in front of him. "To take someone down." 

Miro grimaced a little. It was a good way to get out of answering anything. It might have been a joke. 

"Lighten up," he said. "You're just a kid, fucking hell." 

"How young were you," Miro managed, still fumbling over the English. "When you started?" 

Miro couldn't ask if he was a runner first, or if somehow, Seguin stumbled into this world or was born to it, but he'd been around a long time.

 

\---

 

They brought Roope and him on at the same time, and Miro half expected that they'd be pitted against each other, to see which one of them they'd keep. Except Jamie Benn just said, "Hey, Es, this one's yours," and Miro didn't have to prove himself, yet. 

Esa Lindell was not what he expected, but Miro was glad for him. He didn't say anything about Miro being a kid, too young, trying to fill shoes too big. Esa had a steady hand and good vision and tireless patience. Miro wondered why he'd never heard of him. 

Miro watched and learned.

 

\---

 

Roope hated waiting. 

They said Miro could dance through anything with ice in his veins, but Roope was more active; he didn't like to wait. Give him a lock to pick and a desk to rummage through, and he was on it. He was quick and efficient, and he liked the feeling of a puzzle coming open. It was easy; he didn't have to be a big picture guy. 

"You could be," Spezza said, and even though they called him Giggles, he was deadly serious. "You've got a good head on your shoulders." 

Roope swallowed a lump in his throat.

 

\---

 

They sent Roope away, to do odds and ends. One of those things was to drive around injured guys.

"Good hands and fast wheels," he overheard Fingerless Marc say, one day, and Roope tried not to care what people were obviously saying about him. "He's more useful than I am, right now."

He chauffeured Fingerless Marc around, and he listened to Hanzal complain about Stan half the time. They seemed ready to bestow wisdom on a moment's notice, and they had very fun stories.

Johnsy stared out the window, most of the time.

Roope didn't ask what happened to him.

 

\---

 

Mo gave Denis a package. He told him to take Heater and get rid of the evidence.

Denis thought they'd put him with the other Russians, and they did, when he was around the higher-ups. Big Val told him it might be a while until he was around for good, back when he was only a number on a phone and scores at the gun range.

Denis did a lot of the small things. Someone had to do the grunt work. They sent Roope, sometimes, for the slightly tricky stuff. Roope set him up so that he couldn't fail.


	3. The Ghost

They called John "the Ghost of Gothenburg" this side of the ocean. 

"It's because you're a skeleton," Esa told him. "They think you're a zombie."

He didn't hate the nickname. Sometimes, John wondered if he should get it embossed on his gear, like Chubbs did on his gloves. 

He's pretty sure he doesn't have a nickname back home. He wasn't dumb enough to get caught, and if he had, in fucking _Göteborg_ , well, he wouldn't be where he was today. His brothers thought he worked for a US non-profit; his parents didn't ask so long as he called, occasionally.

\---

John's dad was a cop. A good one, honest and sincere.

All that meant was: John Klingberg knew the law wasn't infallible, that they were people making judgments, making and enforcing rules. They were, at the end of the day, the same kind of people that tried to stop him from sneaking out at night. He never got caught at it.

John never wanted to play by the rules. He always got into places that other people didn't want him to be, and it didn't take him long to figure out that was a skill that was in high demand.

\---

John grinned when he realized his reputation preceded him. John goaded, "Go ahead. Ask." 

The Ghost of Gothenburg would leave no footprints, no trace. He was there, if you asked anyone, but he wasn't there; he never showed up on the cameras. No guns and no bullets ever left behind. Locked rooms.

"It's because he doesn't use any." It was true. John didn't. That was what Esa was for. 

"Poison." Miro tried out the word, and John placed the accent. Chubbs found Esa a baby Finnish duckling. 

"Maybe," John said. "It's a trade secret."

"Secrets? For ghosts?"

"The best kind."

\---

It wasn't like John minded Miro being there, and it wasn't like John wasn't getting more and more internal duties. He was a leader, and sometimes that meant he had to go talk to smugglers instead of waiting in a tree with Esa, making talk and tailing a target. 

Rig was exactly who they wanted along for this: a giant to make the deal go easier, someone to scowl and be menacing, but John still felt exposed without Esa snarking at him.

"We'll pick up Rich, too," Rig said. Rich was a fighter.

"I need another bodyguard?" John pursed his lip. "Expecting trouble?"


	4. The Muscle, the Fed

Brett Ritchie worked his way up. He knew his strengths: throw himself around and crack his knuckles, and everyone would be happy except whoever needed knocking around. They didn't really do the protection racket around here, but there was always someone who owed something or another to his bosses. 

Like today: he got to do something a little more exciting. Brett didn't perk up, exactly, when Rig told him to get ready, but it was like being asked to do something important. 

Or at least break something so that Klinger looked like the good guy. He was fine with that.

\---

Taylor Fedun held up his hands and grinned. "New muscle, Klinger? Not that I'm not glad I'm not bleeding." 

"Drop it, Rich," John said. "He's one of ours." 

"I've never seen him before," Rich answered, still not dropping his gun. "And that badge looks real." 

"Old muscle, Feds." John nodded to Rig, who also looked confused. "Chubbs thought we needed to diversify while you were off and away." 

"Huh," he huffed. 

"You alone?" 

Fedun nodded. "I'll be calling it in when you leave. Big drug buy gone wrong. Big personal argument."

"Minus what they owed us, of course." 

Fedun nodded.


	5. The Old Dogs

Ales Hemsky did not bother to wear high collars. They all had scars. He'd smile and shrug and say something about a bar fight, if he was asked on the street. 

Mostly, people didn't ask. He told Radek the real story, one Christmas. Radek never did look at him the same way, but it was worth it, for the look on his face. 

Ales was retired, mostly, but in this line of business, being retired didn't mean being safe or unbothered. 

He didn't make too many enemies, and he kept his head low. He gave advice and advice only. 

 

\---

 

Jason Spezza let himself pretend that he didn't hear his own joints creaking. He wasn't out there doing the groundwork, and he hadn't been since his father was working his way up to decent living. He was lucky, that way.

He put a smile on his face and laid out the plan. He was always a big plan guy, a big idea guy.

"You've gotten safe in your old age," Hemmer said, drolly, and Jason fought the urge to giggle. He and Ales, back again, for another dumb idea.

"And you're so reckless?" 

Hemmer pulled out a pen and started writing.

 

\---

 

The Benns inherited the whole thing from Morrow, who's somewhere retired in Florida, as far as anyone knows. Some people said Brenden Morrow was down at the bottom of some lake, not fishing on one, though.

Marty knew better. Marty was there for the bitter way that they made Mike step down; Modano spent a lot of time in the desert, these days, so he wasn't talking. 

No one asked Marty, and everyone knew someone like him knew exactly too much. No one really wanted the answer. 

Bishop asked, and so they sat in Marty's office, drinking some expensive scotch.


End file.
